I walked from Earl’s Court. I was in no rush to get home.
As I reached my local high street, I remembered Emily saying she was having lunch at Camille’s Bistro. I glanced around for her, knowing it was unlikely I’d spot her.
My thoughts drifted back to Miranda’s ceremony. Something was niggling at the back of my mind. As a psychologist, it’s my job to pay attention to words – to the exact words people use to explain and describe events and experiences. Emily had been upset on Wednesday, because the occasion reminded her of the death of her friend. Miranda had said the friend had fallen down a stone staircase because her shoes were too high. But Emily herself had said the shoes were ‘too big’. There was a difference.
Emily also said ‘the shoes she was wearing’. What did that imply, exactly? Did Emily mean the shoes didn’t actually belong to her friend? It was an unusual way to put it otherwise.
I looked up to see a crowd flooding onto the main road, heading towards me. With it came the loud banging of drums and banners; a march against local council cuts by the look of it. Hundreds of demonstrators filed past, striving to stay off the road. Mostly good-humoured, they were chanting or blowing whistles, punching their fists into the air. Uniformed police were dotted here and there, some dressed in riot gear with dogs.
I pressed on against the tide, forced to a snail’s pace. At one point there was a scuffle and the horde bunched up, squashing me momentarily into a tall hedge. A group holding yellow balloons tumbled like dominoes almost on top of me. Then a crushed beer can flew right before my face from nowhere. Someone pushed my head down, so I didn’t get hurt. I turned to thank whoever it was, but no one was looking my way.
‘Move along!’ the nearby police officer shouted and just as quickly, the crush dispersed.
I was about to turn off the main road when I thought I caught a glimpse of Emily, after all, on the other side of the road. Like me, she was forcing her way against the surge of protestors. I recognised the way she walked; head held high, confident. I was about to call out when I saw my mistake. Her hair was the right colour, but it was in a completely different style; an inverted bob that reached down only as far as her collar. Wrong person.
Someone bumped into her and she turned her face to one side. Thick tar seemed to fill my lungs as I snatched a breath. It was Emily. Only her hair had been cut off.
I yelled at the top of my voice, but she couldn’t hear me over the clamour of the crowd. I burst into a run, but had to stop to negotiate the busy road. By the time I got to the far side, she’d disappeared into the throng.
I jogged to Camille’s Bistro, but the place was empty. A sign on the door said it was closed due to a break-in. Emily must have moved on somewhere else.
I hurried along the main street, checking inside the cafés and restaurants, but there was no sign of her. I called her phone, but it was switched off.
There was nothing else I could do. I headed for home in a state of shock, feeling as though I was on a ship in stormy seas lurching towards the rocks.
Emily’s lovely hair. It hadn’t reached down to her waist like Hazel’s, but it was much longer than mine. She’d had it all cut off into a new style. Surely, it couldn’t be for the reason I was dreading.
With trembling hands, I tried her phone again. This time I left a message, but kept it light. I didn’t want to frighten her in case I’d got it wrong.
I strode from one side of the sitting room to the other, back and forth, my fingers toying with my lip. Had someone snipped off her hair at the back? Was that the reason for this complete restyle? Emily didn’t know the significance of an assault on her hair. But I did. I knew exactly what it meant.
71
I was twitchy, marching from room to room, huffing and puffing; hot one minute, shivering the next. All I could see flickering before my eyes was Emily with her long hair cut off. She still hadn’t called me back.
I put laundry in the machine, then forgot to switch